Saturday, October 31, 2009

It's 5 O'clock; almost dark out. You'd had trouble finding the keys you dropped, on the stoop, amongst the leaves blown over the steps from the trees beside the house. Not eaten a thing, all day long. Just coffee. A bag of pretzels, or something like them. So you make a bowl of cereal, only there's no milk. Or rather there's only skimmed, half-fat milk. And you suppose that's fine. If you don't mind the taste of cereal in water. Which you do, but your pour the bowl anyway. You put your jacket on the back of the sofa. And the dog comes out; from the bedroom, from his bed, and jumps up; curls up in the corner, head against the arm; taking up most of the seating. Sighs. And you take off your shoes, and sit next to the dog. And you have on wool socks. And it's Halloween. Which you hate. Or rather: are growing less impressed by each year.

Going into the Pharmacy around the corner, picking up a prescription she needs for the following morning, and the place is filled with dickheads in Werewolf masks. Not the kids so much, but full-grown adults dressed as goblins, or robots, or Al Roker, or something. And you've noticed, maybe only so much in the last few years, but when it comes to dressing up for Halloween most girls like to go as sluts. Or cats. Or at the very best: Slutty Cats. Tails in the air. And although you do not dress up, you have standards, and wonder why there are so many fucking Mickey Mouse ears, and cardboard Transformers, and even some guy dressed as an Ear. Maybe you don't get it. Maybe it's a riot amongst their friends. Probably not. Regardless, you have standards, and the fact is: It's Halloween. Go as something dead. Doesn't matter what it is, what you want to be, just be dead. You'd like to go as a cowgirl? Boring, but okay fine. Go as a dead one. Going in drag? A dead Tranny then. A cat? For fuckssake; if you must, but at least one that's been hit by the bus.

You've been thinking, despite it all, that maybe you should work on some kind of Cat Roadkill costume. Just to make a point. But you know it will go over the heads. You know you won't bother.

There were two witches, and Britney Spears as a Skinhead, in the tampon aisle for chrissakes.

The cereal bowl in the sink, you take a beer from the fridge, and open the screen to the fire escape. The heating is back on, but it's unseasonably warm, so you'd like to take a few minutes of fresh air before the sun goes down. You're out there for maybe five minutes, before the first drops begin down your face; filling your open pores with rain. Which is probably, according to most everyone in the 90's, toxic. Pores which have opened from the heat of the sweat-box apartment. And maybe the milk, if milk opens your pores.

"Watch for a man with pock marks. That's holes. In the face. Call this number immediately"

You think about the news. Laugh a little.

And then: you take the beer back inside, and into the bathroom. Running the taps warm, shaving your face and finishing the second half of the bottle. You take another from the fridge and into a hot shower. Washing the grease from your hair. Washing the dirt from your nails. Washing the milk from your chin. You'll be leaving soon; cashing a check- for barely anything worth your while- on your way to meet her, and a friend. Heading to a film. It's the most you can muster: A horror movie on Halloween.

Friday, October 30, 2009

{Yesterday was the perfect weather. I could live every day like that. Anyway, if you know me, or were to ask me, you'd know that I'm not the biggest fan of Williamsburg. However, a later afternoon walk in the lower ends, or I suppose northern ends- the few blocks closest to the water, closer to the Hasidic Jewish communities- offers a different perspective of the neighborhood. Wow, you prentious prick. Anyway, on my way from Fort Greene to North 11th I stumbled on two amazing finds, both new to me, and both the very best of what they offer: LUDDITE and BAKERI.

LUDDITE has a really amazing, well curated, selection of furniture and found objects (coming from a guy who's spent the last 4 years immersed in a very similar environment) while BAKERI had the best coffee and the most amazing pastry, I've had in a long long time. And a great, homely, well thought out space too. Community Tables.

I never used to drink coffee. A stressful summer turned me into an addict.

Oh and the pastry? I don't remember what it's called, but if you go with me sometime, I'll make sure you get it}

Monday, October 26, 2009

{Have you seen THIS yet? I gave up waiting, and calling in favours, and just did it myself using THIS. No shame in my game. Which is awesome. I have no idea what I'm doing, and this is only the rough outline of what it will be, but as I learn more, it will become more. Or less. Depending}

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Sunday, October 18, 2009

The largest ocean in the world starts or ends at Monterey, California. It depends on what language you are speaking. My friend's wife had just left him. She walked right out the door and didn't even say goodbye. We went and got two fifths of port and headed for the Pacific.

It's an old song that's been played on all the juke boxes in America. The song has been around so long that it's been recorded on the very dust of America and it has settled on everything and changed chairs and cars and toys and lamps and windows into billions of phonographs to play that song back into the ear of our broken heart.

We sat down on a small corner-like beach surrounded by big granite rocks and the hugeness of the Pacific Ocean with all its vocabularies.

We were listening to rock and roll on his transistor radio and somberly drinking port. We were both in despair. I didn't know what he was going to do with the rest of his life either.

I took another sip of port. The Beach Boys were singing a song about California girls on the radio. They liked them.

His eyes were wet wounded rugs.

Like some kind of strange vacuum cleaner I tried to console him. I recited some old litanies that you say to people when you try to help their broken hearts, but words can't help at all.

It's just the sound of another human voice that makes the only difference. There's nothing you're ever going to say that's going to make anybody happy when they're feeling shitty about losing somebody that they love.

Finally he set fire to the radio. He piled some paper around it. He struck a match to the paper. We sat there watching it. I had never seen anybody set fire to a radio before.

As the radio gently burned away, the flames began to affect the songs that we were listening to. A record that was #1 on the Top 40 suddenly dropped to #13 inside of itself. A song that was #9 became #27 in the middle of a chorus about loving somebody. They tumbled in popularity like broken birds. Then it was too late for all of them.

{"Pacific Radio Fire", from Revenge of The Lawn, Stories 1962-1970 by Richard Brautigan}